Where do Maya Indians, fugitives, assortment of addicts, evangelists and world-roaming backpackers call home? San Pedro de la Laguna in Guatemala. This oddball lakeside town of Lago de Atitlan is clandestinely nestled in the foothills of the once active San Pedro Volcano. The only rememnants of volcanic activity is the charred brain cells of the weirdo-gringo class that rapidly multiplies, but luckily, stays contained within the enclosed dirt hills of this tiny hamlet.

There are two ways to get here. One method is the chicken buses, jostling their broken-down frames along unpaved, crater filled roads. The second method is the most popular, requiring the least amount of effort, a boat from Panajachel – the one time popular gringo hangout, now the gateway to more obscure hide-outs.

Since I arrived in Guatemala four months ago, I’ve constantly heard enticing rumors about San Pedro.

“It’s so beautiful – you can swim in the lake, climb the volcano, chill out on the rocks.

San Pedro is the cheapest place in all of Guatemala. Everything is two bucks: hotels, food, beer. The cheapest Spanish lessons.

You haven’t been to San Pedro? What are you waiting for? Once you get there, you’ll never leave."

How can anyone resist such tantalizing recommendations! Twenty-twenty hindsight, I should have paid more attention to the travelers giving the advice than the advice itself.

I stepped off the boat with my backpack and was instantly attacked by a throng of little boys eager to take me to the accommodation of their choice – for a small fee. The average age of these little workers started at four, still adorable, but once they reached the ripe-old age of six, they bordered on nuisance. Kindly, I thanked them for their attention and set off on my own.

I felt betrayed. At first glance San Pedro didn’t strike me as the gem of Guatemala. As a matter of fact, it looked like a dump: plastic wrappers along with other odds and ends littered the sidewalks filled with a fresh aroma of rotting fruit that penetrated the air. I crinkled my nose confused about the destination and set off on my hotel mission. The entire village, with the exception of the steep road leading to the center plaza, was a labyrinth of criss-crossed dirt paths. I made my way past vacant lots covered with trash, through clusters of dirt floor shacks, and finally came upon the highly raved hotels. I had a variety to choose from, all within my price range: two bucks.

All villages, towns, suburbs and cities have one thing in common: they are always under construction. Such was the case in this village. My choices were: semi-constructed cement hotels on the right or their unfinished counterparts on the left. I played eenie-meenie-minee-moe and landed upon The Santa Elena. This small, oddly shaped orange structure would be my home for the next week. It fit perfectly into the overall disorganization of the town. I was given a room on the bathroom-less side (all the others were taken), which was quite an inconvenience. To cross over to the other side required acrobatic skills, which could somehow be achieved during the day, but at night, good luck!

A cement courtyard split the hotel into two disheveled structures. Construction materials bought years ago to complete the building were strewn about in the middle with cinder blocks, rods and sharp nails protruding outward. If this wasn’t enough of a challenge, a brilliant engineer hired ages ago, decided it was a good idea to put the water run-off directly in the middle of the yard, unevening the concrete slabs and then he tried to bridge them together with a three inch, unsteady wooden plank. This was the path to the baño side.

I pushed my bladder concerns to the back of my mind and headed back out to the dirt paths. It was mid-day Saturday, the sun was in full glory and the trails were deserted. Besides exploring "the prize possession of Guatemala", as my compadres called it, I wanted to take Spanish classes. On my way, I couldn’t break free from the one element that followed me everywhere – dirt. It was in the air, on the ground, in my room, on my hands, on my face, in my hair – impossible to escape! I swam through the grayish fog of dust and found one of the Spanish schools. Since Sunday is rest day and classes began Monday, I had two full days to acquaint myself with the locale.

I ended up at the popular hang out – Nick’s Place 3. I sat down next to a group of travelers: two guys and a girl. We engaged in conversation. After the standard pleasantries, I asked, “How long have you been in San Pedro?”

“We’ve been here for about two months,” one guy answered with a dazed look.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s cool. How about you?” he remarked.

“I don’t know anything about it. I just arrived two hours ago,” I replied, “Are you studying here?”

“Nah, we haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he yawned.

“Oh have you been up to the volcano? I hear you can see the entire lagoon from the peak.”

“Naw, it’s too far up, it’s like a five or six hour climb,” the other guy answered.

The girl quickly interjected, “You don’t want to go up there on your own because there are a lot of bandits with machetes, people are always getting assaulted. It’s better to use a guide, but I think they’re super expensive.”

I had absolutely no intention to head up some volcano on my own or with a guide, I’ll leave the climbing to climbers!

“So what else is there to do?” I asked quizzically. I couldn’t imagine what you can possibly do here for longer than one week, much less two months.

“We got some kind bud. Once you smoke this, you’ll be flying to the peak of that volcano,” they all broke out in laughter.

The gait and mannerisms of certain travelers seem to repeat no matter the destination. In this case, I knew exactly whom I was talking to. My new-found friends had one thing on their agenda – smoke as much grass as possible and do as little as possible. This was my cue to say goodbye.

I trekked my way around the lakeside, enjoying the fabulous view of the aquamarine lagoon encircled by volcanoes and mountains and headed back to my room. I am one of those people who can’t find their way out of a paper bag. Needless to say, I got lost on my way home. En route, I past more run-down accommodations with languid travelers sprawled out on hammocks, rocking and swaying to inner musical rhythms. The pungently sweet aroma of marijuana floated through the fruit trees towards the sky impersonating smoke signals to attract their kindred spirits. As I worried about my future week in San Pedro, I stumbled upon my hotel. Greeted by the waking humans from one of the rooms, I was grateful for something to do. Slyly, I made my way into their conversation.

Replay. I asked the couple how long they’ve been here. Apparently, their "mad love affair" began two months ago, although Stacy had been here for three months and Ted for five months.

“Which school are you studying Spanish” I asked.

“Ha ha, ha. I, we, haven’t gotten around to it.” Ted answered for them and winked at his proud girlfriend, at the same moment whipping out a joint and lighting it. “You want some?”

“No thanks, I’m going to take a nap.”

What was I doing here?

Saturday came and went. Early Sunday morning I was awakened by a cacophony of sounds. It started at six in the morning with explosions of all sorts, followed by agonizing "hallelujahs" and young indigenous girls banging on hotel doors selling pan de banana. I rued this turn of events. My plan was to sleep all of Sunday to make the time fly before school. Instead I had the whole day to wander around.

Choices limited, I went to the market.

Independence Day parade in

San Pedro la Laguna, Guatemala

The indigenous made up the majority of the population in San Pedro. They were extremely poor, simple-minded, religious, uneducated and traditional. With the exception of merchants and vendors who use Spanish regularly, they still communicated in their native tongue. The women dressed in long colorful skirts covered in a thin layer of dirt with a solid shirt tucked in and tightened by a hand-woven belt. If not barefoot, the women wore rubber shoes that cost one dollar, bought for them when they turned six-years-old to be worn until they die. The women never looked you in the eye and held their children close as they passed by. The men, with their muscular physiques from years of carrying heavy loads up and down steep hills, had no problem looking straight at you, and often lewd remarks accompanied their toothless smiles. I bought bean tamales and sat in the plaza as the locals scurried around me busy with domestic chores.

Bored I headed back to the docks and walked right into the absurd reality of San Pedro. I remembered a conversation I had months ago with an aging expatriate who’d been living in Guatemala for over twenty-five years, although some of the facts were blurry. I clearly recalled him mentioning that Lago de Atitlan, predominantly, San Pedro had the most fugitives per capita than any other Latin American country. The FBI and other officials from the U.S. and Canada came here two times per year to bring home the newly investigated trophies of the exclusive sub-culture that thrived deep within the curvy paths and covert dens of this chosen town. Meanwhile, the ex-pats lived off their stolen riches and started new enterprises. Not straying far from the familiar, they sold drugs. But these newly appointed drug lords weren’t the only ones who found their way to this lawless village. Misfits of all walks of life decided to "drop out of life", proudly voicing their reasons to anyone who was within earshot.

I sat on the pier where the boats dropped off misinformed tourists, and tried to ignore the assembly line of Indian girls selling pan de banana, pan de coco or other treats. Inadvertently, I eavesdropped on my neighbors’ conversation.

“America was too difficult to cope with; I couldn’t handle the stress and the cut-throat lifestyle,” a man in his 50’s with stringy, unkempt hair exalted as he lounged in the sun with a beer.

“Yeah, I hear ya man, I worked as a cashier for Wal-Mart, it was too much,” his buddy sympathized smoking feverishly on a filter-less cigarette.

“Hey man what happened to you last night?”

“Whadda ya mean, man?”

“I was stumbling home and nearly cracked my noggin as I tripped over you. You were passed out, dude.”

“Ooooohhhhh, I remember man, what a night, I got soo plastered. And then a buddy of mine gave me some grass and that was it, man,” he spittled a laugh, “I was so toasted I couldn’t even make it home.”

“I hear ya. That’s happened to me aplenty. “

“I know, hey that’s life, no worries.” He patted his pal on the back and continued, “Hey have you seen my new abode. It’s great man. I have no electricity, no running water. Outside’s an outhouse which was there when I found the place. It’s great. I totally lucked out, no worries.”

He shifted his body to the right leaning on an elbow and let his legs fall apart exposing blackened underwear through shorts on the brink of evaporation from over-use and under-wash. There were no laundry mats in this part of the world and God forbid you put hand to cloth, which could represent conformity to the rest of the world. This little display gave me too many worries, and I scuttled on home immediately.

Not all the travelers who happened upon this mixed up little town were eager to fully saturate their bodies with elements of all kind and spend endless amounts of days in complete oblivion. I managed to find people with similar interests. No, we were not teetotalers, but coherency was important. I introduced myself to some of the other occupants. There were six: three guys from Switzerland, taking Spanish courses for the past two weeks; an American couple who arrived today and signed up for the same school as I did; and my next door neighbor, an Australian girl, who’d been here for the past two days.

We had dinner at Pinocchio’s Restaurant owned by John Wayne’s personal chef. How did he end up here? It didn’t matter, the food was fantastic and it was two bucks. To fill our thirst, a cold beer won unanimously and we trotted in step to the bar strip. Actually there were three little bars alongside the dock, all owned by foreigners. We chose the Italian-Israeli bar/restaurant/disco.

San Pedro was made out of dirt and rock. Strict restrictions have been placed on construction of certain buildings that cater to a lot of foot traffic and musical vibrations, forcing most entertainment establishments to move to the waterfront. The use of stilts burrowed deep into the cliffs and the water were used to balance and support these particular foundations. With great views and open verandas, the bar cleared out half of its space after sunset and a makeshift nightclub was arranged. We sat in the space with tables and ordered a round of beer. Eighties music filled the open-aired room; the patrons began moving.

On this side of the docks, it was rare to spot anyone from the indigenous race. They kept themselves as far away from the sinners of the new world as possible. While they fed their large families with beans and prepared their hammocks or haystack beds, we indulged in Satan’s temptations. Ironically, a stray sat at the next table. She had long lost her typical dress and manners, judging by her washed-up sad appearance, she had lost more than just her traditions. She excommunicated herself from the tribe to search for the pot-of-gold at the end of a rainbow, instead she found pyrite and a fool.

Somewhere between us ordering drinks and thanking the waitress, the fool accompanying the local girl, decided we were conspiring against him. He catapulted upward knocking over his wooden chair and jumped on top of our table. He missed, thanks to alcohol, and landed on his butt next to the foot of the Australian girl, Wendy. But his point was made. A maniac was on the loose.

One of the owners, either the Italian or the Israeli, came to our rescue, “Ok, Jimmmm, relax, you’ve had too much to drink. Why don’t you go home?”

He turned to us and whispered, “This happens all the time, especially when he drinks whiskey. Post-traumatic-stress syndrome or something like that,” he winked at us as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

I was too terrified to run to the loo to vomit my guts out, so I sat paralyzed, stopping all blood flow to my hands as I gripped my chair for dear life.

He was falling all over himself, tripping over chairs, bouncing off the beams that held the restaurant in place. It wasn’t a pretty spectacle and an experience I would have loved to miss. Finally his frumpish girlfriend stood up and cajoled him in the direction of the exit with a touch of Latin sweetness. With the help of the owner, they managed to shove his heavy frame out the exit door. The goofballs at my table provoked him by screaming a string of obscenities on his way out. I sent telepathic farewells to the world I knew and the family I loved. The last thing I heard as the door to the restaurant shut was the owner saying, “See you tomorrow Jim. Take care.”

Police of Guatemala are infamous for corruption and were feared more than the thieves and crooks of this country. Bribery and law enforcement went hand in hand. So to operate an establishment such as the one I was patronaging required business sense and a few bucks. Our ingenious restaraunteurs were fully aware of the infinite rewards money could buy. They were home and I missed home.

You’re asking: Why was I still here? Well, hastily I paid in advance for my classes without the knowledge that refund policies have yet to enter the commerce sector of Latin America. Either I would throw my money out due to childish fear, or I’d stick it out and accept my reality.

Grammar is essential to learning a new language, but I wasn’t planning to write a book. My goal was to converse freely with locals, and avoid being swindled by them. Admiringly, I sat at one end of the small wooden table under a thatched roof and faced my new Spanish tutor. She was my first Mayan encounter and gladly obliged when I insisted our lessons consisted of talk, talk and more talk.

Her oval, brown face opened up with a huge smile revealing five front teeth outlined in gold. The Mayan forefathers had immense wealth, which eventually led to their destruction and take-over by the greedy conquistadors. No wealth remains but genetics is hard to change. A traditional Indian proudly displayed his affluence with the amount of teeth outlined in gold, even if he only had a few teeth. They prefer spending their money on ornamentation rather than salvaging rotting teeth. I assumed she was in the wealthier class, not judging from the gold, but the number of teeth remaining.

It was impossible to ignore the unique lifestyles, stories, or rumors centered on Guatemala’s indigenous population. I marveled at our grand differences. I was curious as to what really happened inside their secluded communities. On average their realm of reality extends 100-kilometers in circumference, so it was understandable when a blonde-haired, five-foot-six-inch woman entered, I became a source of curiosity. I’ve had a multitude of kids tug at my hair, touch me or stare unrelentingly at my alien appearance. They wanted to know if I was real, the same way I wanted to know if they were real. Never finding the right moment to talk to one of them, I was thrilled when my teacher slowly began telling me her life story. What else could we talk about?

Born to a family of thirteen, which was the average family size, she didn’t see her first shoe until she was twelve years old, a rubber hand-me-down from her older sister. The transition from childhood to womanhood occurred around the age of six, when the load of chores substituted playtime. There were no government regulations or truancy laws pertaining to school attendance; parents decided if their children went to school or not. I wasn’t clear as to why, but her parents allowed her to finish school, unlike her siblings, who were taken out after four years to go work. Taking advantage of her privilege, she understood the benefits of education and applied for university.

There’s one public university located in the capital, three hours from Panajachel. It was fully funded by the government. However, she came from pure poverty, not knowing where the next meal would come from was a constant concern in the house. Rent in the city was out of the question. Her only option was synonymous to slavery. Rich families took-on destitute girls to clean, cook and care for their children. Monday through Friday she studied from 8:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m at the university, arrived at the house by two, where she cared for the three children, cleaned and worked until 10:00 p.m. She retired to her little space, shared with the large sink where laundry was done and until 3:00 a.m., she prepared her schoolwork. She didn’t get paid but she had a place to sleep and some food. Transportation to the university and school supplies cost money; in turn she worked fifteen hours on Saturdays at a button factory.

During these four years, she met her husband-to-be. “He was the only light in my ominous existence.” They were classmates. At first she was hesitant to his advances because he was the "Don Juan" of her class. Curiosity piqued, I asked, “Didn’t you have other boyfriends before him?”

Shyly she looked away pushing back her waist-long, dark-brown braids intertwined with bright red and blue material to match her traditional outfit and answered, “No. The only other boys I’ve talked to were my brothers and some of their friends.” Her unbridled innocence was a true contradiction to the surroundings.

During the week, I altered my route invariably. I took new paths to school, to my hotel, to the restaurants, to town. I have a habit of being completely oblivious to my surroundings. After my eyes adjusted to the dirt-filled air, I realized that at every turn in the road, on every corner, between houses and restaurants stood a church of some denomination or other. The most dominate one, the Evangelistic sect, controlled more than half of all of San Pedro’s real estate. I had yet to see a medical clinic.

San Pedro has one "real" road and at times even that is questionable. The only cars I saw were broken down pick-ups loaded with fruits and vegetables sputtering towards the market. Surreally, out drove a brand new Toyota Rav4 edition. In the States this is considered a luxury car, with a price tag of a minimum of $30,000. Imported to Guatemala with tax, it costs at least $40,000. Who in San Pedro could afford it? Why were they here? How did they get the money?

I never made it to the market, instead returned to the hotel and found some of the gang hanging out on the bano side. I hopped, skipped and jumped over the drain and joined them. Perplexed by my new discovery, I asked, “Have you seen the brand new SUV around here?"

Brian, the American, who seemed to have all the answers, replied, “Yeah, I’ve seen it. It belongs to the advocate and head honcho for the Evangelistic denomination of San Pedro. He owns almost all of the churches, schools and stores.”

“But how does he have so much money? These people can’t afford shoes?” I questioned.

“You haven’t heard the story about this guy. I forget his name, but it’s a well known story.”

“NOOO!” We all perked up.

He began, “Do you remember Pinocchio’s restaurant? Right in front of it is a huge cement wall with barbed wire?” I nodded. “If you peak into the gate you can catch a glimpse of a mansion?”

“That’s what that is? Every time I pass by some beastly dog barks through the impenetrable wall,” I exclaimed.

He laughed, “That’s his watch dog. I saw a maid walking him one day. It’s a rotweiler. Anyhow, that’s the guy’s house.”

I thought it was a military training facility; there was no reason why anyone should take such extreme measures of security unless they really had something to hide.

“But how can he afford it?”

“Well that’s the twisted part. Seven months ago, an American who actually had some sense, which is rare in this neck of the woods,” we snickered, “became suspicious. He couldn’t understand how the pastor of the most popular church could live in opulence while his attendees were in squalor and suffered from malnutrition. He started to ask around, even went as far as to attend the man’s sermons. He was fluent in Spanish, but also spoke Tzutujil.”

“That’s the Maya dialect used here, right?” someone interrupted.

“Yeap, and it certainly helped him. Because he found out that the church is funded by a missionary group from the States. They hired this crook to disperse the donations within his village. They have no idea how badly he is robbing them. He’s a great politician. The Mayans spoke reverently about their savoir, telling the American how the guy gives them a pound of sugar, beans, rice, one-hundred tortillas and two-dozen eggs weekly.”

“That’s supposed to feed a family of twenty!”

“That’s the point. It can barely feed a family of four. So he dug deeper. He got the name of the group in the States, called them and pretended to be a donor. The average donation was twenty dollars per person, per month. There are about five thousand participants. Do the math; it’s close to $100,000.”

We sprang up in unison, “Wow! I should get into this line of business.”

“Twenty dollars per family, per month is considered rich. This crook takes seventeen dollars from each twenty dollars, pockets it and gives the other three dollars in food and used clothing to his blind followers. He’s a millionaire. He’s also smart. He knows his village and his people very well. They are broke, destitute and uneducated. I think the latest statistic was 70% of the indigenous males are illiterate, and 90% of their women. So he built evangelistic schools, and brainwashes his future generations. He also knows that there are no TV’s or newspapers. He takes advantage of the sheltered lives of this meek race and exploits them for all they have.”

“Don’t tell me that they also donate money to him?” his girlfriend asked, amazed.

“Absolutely, how can they be saved if they don’t pay? So the American decided to take action. He plastered signs on every door, pole, restaurant and market exposing the corruption. Instead of the revolt he was hoping for, one evening the strongly influenced or well-bribed federales came to his house, arrested him for harassing their man of the cloth and put him in jail. Last I heard he was released after two weeks and has never been seen in Guatemala again.” With this he clapped his hands as if he just finished reading a book, leaving us to digest this sorry, unjust reality of a helpless village.

The locals have few work options. Their lack of education reduces their prospects to physical labor, selling produce and other goods at the market, cooking or walking around the village begging tourists for money. One popular form is selling pan de banana in the courtyards of hotels twenty-four hours a day. Their business tactics are annoying.

I have visited many villages and towns scattered throughout Latin America. Salsa, meringue, and other various musical rhythms vibrated in the background along with laughter and cheer, no matter the economic status or religious beliefs. As you walked along the dusty paths in San Pedro, the only music heard was of the recent settlers from the western world and the unholy gospels hypnotizing the innocent. The homes were always quiet, dim and devoid of true passionate life. What happened here? Wasn’t one takeover of these innocent, easily led people enough? No. There was more blood to suck dry.

At times I felt the week would never end, but the buzz around the town was contagious. As Friday neared, even I became excited. Once a year a festival is held in San Pedro, family members from all over Guatemala travel miles to join their extended kin. Announcement of their early arrival had us all waiting in vain for the finale so we could go back to sleep. For most travelers though, it was a rare treat to partake in a traditional festival. In other words, deafening booms at all hours of the morning were accepted as part of the observance. I, on the other hand, had stumbled upon this week because it coincided with my travel itinerary. I was not prepared to take part in all of the activities.

It took over an hour for us to congregate in the hotel courtyard, before heading towards the gathering. Within seconds, mayhem commenced. We split up; Wendy and I were left to fend for ourselves. The noise was a full-on sensory overload: screaming mothers, crying babies, motley crews of boys, drunken men, carnival rides, live music, recorded music and other indefinable hums trapped within a small space called San Pedro’s Center. We spun around, overwhelmed, not knowing which way to go and decided on the free show.

To get to the stage we needed to pass through the permanent market. On a typical day it’s chaotic with vendors grabbing at you from all sides and robotically screaming, “Verduras, frutas, bebidas, comidas. Que quieres?” Over and over, simulating broken records. But tonight, it was an untamed zoo. Amidst the fifty regular booths, 200 additional ones were crammed into an already saturated space, overflowing onto the narrow, winding, cobblestone street jammed with a million people. Since no plan was developed, booth keepers disarrayed their shops wherever possible, creating too many unnecessary dead-ends, adding to our frustration.

Music stands blasted inaudible sounds out of speakers the size of small cars. Clothes vendors dispersed on all sides of the streets and sold used jeans, long forgotten 80’s bands silk-screened T-shirts, Jesus praising insignias or other fashion rejects. Interspersed between household goods, music, clothes and food stalls, stood a plethora of tiny booths selling five-pound colorful, cubic blocks.

“What’s this?” I asked Wendy.

“I haven’t the foggiest …”

Sheer curiosity led us to buy it. The vendor took out an ice pick and chipped away. Small fragments scattered around the pink block. With one swift motion he collected the scraps and threw them into a small plastic bag, which cost fifty cents. It was candy. I practically cracked a tooth as I bit into the hardest sweet created, watching everyone at the festival as they sucked on this rock of sugar, shedding new light on the toothless community.

We finally made it to the concert. We stood at the far end of the plaza looking out over a sea of black heads, scattered intermittently with blonde, redhead, and brunette beacons bobbing to the beat of the music, occasionally nodding to a fellow traveler. The local gringos didn’t bother to make an appearance. Either they’d seen it before, or were hiding from bounty hunters. Whatever the reason, I gave them credit.

I surveyed my surroundings and noticed that not all the Indians were catechized by Evangelistic beliefs. Obviously, the local community were divided by opposing pastures. The attendees’ preacher permitted some of them to let loose and enjoy a bit of freedom.

On stage, was the best band I’d ever seen. "Wow! They are incredible. Look at them move!” I screamed and pointed at the singers doing splits, jumping over each other while keeping in sync with the beat and singing perfectly. Their moves were flawless, professional and creative.

With all of the excitement on stage, we didn’t notice the crowd. It was a mortuary – bizzaro-land. Families, with lots of kids hanging from every body part, huddled and scornfully watched us. They were motionless. It was like a still life, expressionless and featureless.

The next song began. The energy on stage exploded, flew over our heads and dropped to the floor like a care package falling from a plane into an evacuated village. Who were they performing for? Who were they feeding off?

I have always admired true musicians. I’ve given credit where it was due. For me to be part of this ungrateful audience was shameful. We wanted to run on stage and show our appreciation.

I grabbed Wendy by the arm and pushed our way through the rigid, unbreakable figures blocking the passageways. We found the dance floor, although "dance" was a not exactly the word I would choose to describe what we saw. Within the roped off, dirt space were eight or ten males of various ages. They were "out of it". It was as though someone sprayed Raid and we arrived to catch the after effects. Some crawled on all fours to nowhere; others were sprawled out obliterated and drooling; a few were still holding on to beer bottles, slanted and walking in circles. Gathered around the rope were women with their children silently observing their husbands make spectacles of themselves. The little boys watched timidly, for one day they would follow in their father’s footsteps. Little girls eyed their future husbands with a concerned look, hoping their men-to-be would behave better.

We exited the concert area and were swept away by a stampede. At one point I was lifted about half-a-foot off the ground and carried away by the masses. I closed my eyes and imagined myself on a magic carpet flying as far away as possible. Instead, I drifted to a side street and was impetuously dropped off in the middle of a queue. Wendy was released a few hundred feet in front of me. Tracing the outline of the never-ending line, filled with mothers and small children, I retrieved her. Up ahead we saw a turnoff for the road to take us back to Nick’s Place, but first, we had to find out what all the waiting was about.

As we came around the corner, we discovered the source. It was the very first ferris wheel ever built! During its long life the ancient attraction had seen more than one junkyard. The rusted machine was a death trap. Children jumped up and down as their trusting parents clasped the useless safety buckle to hold them in place. The wheel spun at the velocity of light, fusing all the children into one. The only reason none of them fell out was because the rapid speed kept them plastered to the seats. We turned right and went downhill to the bar. With a cold brew in hand, surrounded by the other disappointed backpackers, we toasted our last night.

Saturday morning arrived, I hopped on the first bus to take me far away from this tiny mixed up town, where the convicts and freeloaders ruled the land, with confused souls following blindly and completely unaffected by the traditional and severely religious Indians that once lived here in an askew but peaceful existence. I was well aware that I did not fit into the distinct categories of people foraging off this side of the world. I sat on the bus anticipating my next destination and hoping for less contradiction and more acceptance.